Time will wander through the realms of possibility and dreams,
as if it could be held and known beyond what it does seem,
and yet ephemeral and wraith-like it still surely flows;
determined to be free, beyond what mind can ever know.

If only we could pin it down, despite the death-like struggle,
to hold it then in place, displayed, revealed for every trouble,
that focus could then study, dissect and so reach understanding;
life could take on form, respond to careful, steady planning.

But like the moth, captured and pinned so purely on the board,
truth then is lost, the substance shrivelled, reality transformed,
in ways which make impossible to then divine in any shape,
the nature, heart and soul from which it seeks to then create.

Ephemeral and flimsy, impermanent, there is no lasting grip,
where any touch destroys, lingers as dust upon thought’s fingertip,
detached from feeble wings of  minutes, days, months and years;
marking death in ticking moments as each Now then disappears.


About rosross

Editor, writer, poet.
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